


I Found You on Grindr, So Fuck Me Maybe

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU in which the game may have happened, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - College/University, Black Romance, Breathplay, Choking, M/M, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Tentabulges, but nobody remembers it, it starts off that way that's for sure, kind of?, very light aftercare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 18:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10860051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: It's hard to find the sort of guy who's all up and down to fuck when you're an indigo-blood on the human side of town. But hey, there's apps for that.





	I Found You on Grindr, So Fuck Me Maybe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forgetful01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetful01/gifts).



You're staring at Dave fucking Strider.

This is NOT who you expected to open the door, and for like a half a second you wonder if this is all gonna be worth it, or if you should just go on and fuck off. 

It ain’t like you’re the sort of guy to be all sorts of choosy with your partners. You don’t give a shit. And it isn’t like you got a lot of options. Other trolls are all sorts of freaked by your blood color, and humans are all types of skeeved by how big your fuckin’ bulge is, so you take whatever you can get. ‘Sides, the picture he’s got posted ain't the sort that does much for identification. It’s the sort of weird-artsy you’d expect from Strider, you gotta admit; all in blacks and greys, mostly shadow, with his angular face lit by the glowing flame he’s holding to the end of his cigarette, the light dancing off the mirrored surface of his shades. Probably the sort of shit that’d be in galleries for a few thousand boonbucks.

...maybe you should’ve expected this.

But it ain’t like the rest of your pictures had been any sort of that flavor of pretentious. Waist-down, (and he’s got a decent package, pierced all down the underside with gleaming barbells) with hands and dick and that’s about it in the shots. When he’d finally typed out an address you’d been all sorts of ready to get your freak on, and you hadn’t even grabbed a jacket. He was like maybe 15 minutes away at a good jog (you’d been happy as fuck to realize he was so close to campus, probably even went to the school) and you were going at a great jog, so you got there in no time at all.

And now you’re standing here all shocked and awed, and Dave Strider is reaching for your shirt and tugging you into his apartment.

Dave Strider, who has the biggest hateboner for you that you’ve ever seen on anyone, _ever_.

You’re not about to complain. The words he mutters before his mouth crashes on yours sound an awful lot like him thanking some all-power heaven-beings, and he’d invited you, so you’re not gonna be denyin’ whatever enjoyment you could pull outta this.

He’s damn insistent on getting you out of your clothes. Your shirt’s already tangled on your horns and he’s swearing by the time you reach up to rip the cloth off your head, and you grin down at him. Yeah, he planned this. You know he did. He’s got his hand halfway down your pants before you finally start yanking at his clothes. “Motherfuck all got his _want_ on for me,” you purr, and he freezes.

Your hand dips into his pants in that moment of stillness, and when you close your cold fingers around his dick, he closes his eyes and fucking _moans_ , all deep and low and throaty, and bucks up into your hand. 

Oh, you are _here_ for this.

There’s heat pulsing through your palms, and your body is up and _absorbing_ it, making your bloodpusher skip a beat and your nook throb. His warmth is a special sort of hot and it makes you want to kiss him, to bite at his lips ‘til they’re bleeding and you can drink down the miracles he’s got under his skin. “How long you been in ache for this, brother?” You squeeze his dick, abandoning his pants for the sake of raking your claws through his hair, tangling your long fronds all up in his pretty blonde mess and making a fist. “How long you been wantin’ this sort of nasty?”

“Fuck you,” he breathes, squirming the rest of the way out of his jampants. “The fuck did you come for, if you knew it was me.”

“I didn’t.” 

“Liar,” is the accusation he throws at you, and it turns into a new sound that you fuckin’ enjoy the fuck out of when you twist the hand in his hair. You answer by kissing him, and now you _do_ let your sharp fangs snag on his lips. His blood tastes like copper and dreams, and you suck at his lower lip hard enough that you know it’s gonna be bruised in all sorts of pretty colors tomorrow.

When you finally pull back, there’s red smeared on his chin and his eyes are half-glazed, and he whines when you catch his wrists and pull them up over his head, keeping them pinned against the wall while you get on with exploring his frame. When you snag your finger on one of his nipples he chokes on some gasping word, and you grin at him, twisting it. “Be all _likin'_ all this pitch,” you coo, and he scowls at you, panting.

“So you gonna _give_ it to me,” he growls, “Or are you just all _talk?”_

 _All talk._ You’ll show him all talk. The loose-fitting pants you’ve got hanging on your hips don’t hold up against your determination, and you can already feel your bulge sliding over your thigh under your boxers. Once you’re all divulged of the fabric that had you strapped, you press against the guy who brought you here in the first place, and then your bulge is sliding over his thigh instead.

He squirms against you, one leg lifting to hook around you, so there’s no space between your body and his. Instinctively seeking his entrance, your bulge slides lower, snaking past his sac to probe at his entrance. The best part about the mess you make when someone’s got you going like this is that you come ready to go with built-in lube, which means when the tip of your bulge eases into him he gasps and presses closer to you, instead of wincing. That doesn’t last long, though; you gotta be bigger than anything else he’s ever taken, because as you continue to work yourself into him, he makes a sound that’s almost pain. 

Nobody ever accused you of hurting someone without them telling you it was chill, so that makes you stop. “You good?” 

You don’t know what it is about what you ask that makes him snicker, but he does, his voice weirdly soft when he answers. “I’m good. Just—don’t stop, alright?”

You lick your lips (you can still taste him there, metallic-tinged glimmers of stardust) and nod, closing your eyes as you continue to pump yourself into him. You can taste his tears on the air when you’re finally fully inside him, your hips against his, and when you start to let yourself move inside him he half-chokes on the sobbing moan that you get out of him. 

Man, you like it rough but this is a special sort of glorious, and you let your fang nick his skin when you kiss his ear. “More?” 

Dave grunts , rocking on the wall, grinding himself against you. It isn’t enough, isn’t _near_ enough, and you settle one hand around his throat. He tilts his chin back, and you squeeze. This time, your words come as a growl. “Motherfuckin’ _more?”_

The way he nods brings across a level of desperation that you wouldn’t have thought was possible with Dave fuckin’ Strider, and you aren’t about to question it. Not right now. Not when he’s making strangled little sounds behind the clench of your fingers and your hips are thudding against his, hammering out a rapid staccato against the wall. You let go of his hands so you can brace yourself and he slings one arm around your shoulders and lets the other land between his legs, jacking himself in a sloppy imitation of the rough rhythm you’ve settled into, and you can tell when to let him have some air because it’s in the moments when the hand gripping your arm goes slack, and then he’s arching beneath you when he gulps for air, his head rocking back, and you didn’t know that Dave Strider was this fuckin’ _hot,_ didn’t even imagine how he’d look when he’s at your mercy and begging you for more, always _more,_ tears on his cheeks and his voice raspy with the pressure of your hand around his throat—

When he stiffens against you you wrap both of your hands around his neck and squeeze until his eyes start to flutter - and then you’re kissing him when you move your hands, catching him by the hair and sucking the scream out of him as your bulge spasms within him, your genetic material dripping down your thighs and his spattering your stomach. 

That doesn’t mean you stop. There’s no reason to stop, not when he’s still kissing at you, clumsily, his ankles locked against your ass and keeping you from going far.

So you don’t stop. You don’t stop for a long, long time.

* * *

He’s shaking when you’re done, which means you carry him to the bathroom (you’re not listening to his protests; you’re not an asshole and you won’t let him make you into one) and while you’re testing the water he’s getting a towel and he wipes himself clean before offering it to you. While you’re scrubbing away the last of the genetic material (the towel he offered you is purple, you note, which means you’re not gonna leave stains) he’s looking at the floor in the hallway with a frown. “You tracked weird alien jizz all over the studio.”

You glance over your shoulder. Yep, there’s your footprint, clear as anything, and you let a grin spread over your face, wide and lazy. “It’ll get cleaned eventual-like, my guy.” You nod at the water. “Tell me if that’s all good for your sweetsoft human skin.”

He snorts at you, shouldering past you to test the water. You wish you could bottle the surprise in his eyes, because it’s a motherfucking _delight._ The surprise carries over into his voice, even. “Yeah,” he murmurs, pulling the plunger that sends the water spraying through the showerhead. When you move to get into the shower behind him, he splays his hand across your chest. “Whoa. Just...give me a second, alright?”

You hesitate. This isn’t how shit is supposed to go. You take care of your pitchmate. That’s what you _do._ Except you aren’t exactly pitch for this guy (whatever, he’s still covered in marks from your teeth and claws) so the rules don’t exactly apply. Except maybe humans are different. You don’t know. It ain’t exactly like you’ve ever let yourself go so hard with a human before. “You all sure?”

There’s that look again, the weird one he’d given you when you’d stopped to make sure he was okay before finding out all the best ways to wreck him. “Yeah. You can...fuck, you can hang out, if you want. I don’t give a shit. Just...clean up the mess, okay?”

You glance at your footprint again, and nod. “Sure, okay.” You can do that. Yeah. Hell yeah. All sorts of hell and fuck yeah.

Even though it’s what he told you to do, he still looks surprised when he finds you by the front door when he’s done. He’s toweling off his hair, and he blinks owlishly at you as you sit back on your heels. You’d gotten your pants back on, and his are piled next to the entryway, a short ways away from the last of the material you’re mopping up off the floor. “You actually--”

You interrupt him, because there’s more pressing shit that needs taken care of. Like all the wounds you’d left all over him. “You gonna let me be a _proper_ fuckin’ blackmate now?”

The way he chuckles sounds almost uneasy. “That wasn’t a hatefuck, Makara.”

The statement takes you kind of off-guard, but you do a pretty hellacious job of not letting that show. “Well, you’re still all sorts of scratched up from the attentions of a motherfucker, and you gotta get that shit seen to.” 

He touches the scratches on his neck that you’d opened up with your teeth, and there’s something weirdly shy about the way he does it. “I got it, you don’t gotta worry about it.”

You frown as you stand up. That isn’t how this shit works. You’re beginning to honestly wonder what kind of shitty-ass fucks Dave’s had in the past, that leave him to clean himself up on his own. “I’m not gonna just fuck off, Strider.” You can hear the annoyance in your voice, and the way it makes his brows knit together is an odd sort of not okay that you can’t figure out. “I fucked you up, now I fix you up.”

There’s a snort of laughter. “You’re the first one to want to,” he mutters, hugging himself and taking a step back. He won’t look at your face. “Look, just fuckin’....go, okay, before shit gets weird and awkward.”

You blink. “It ain’t gotta be all weird and awkward.” You take a step towards him, and then another one, to close the space between you. He stiffens when you move your hand through his hair, but all you’re doing is checking the wounds you’d scored on him. He’d done a good job of cleaning them, and only a couple of them actually needed covered. You’re glad it isn’t worse, honestly. The way he’s cringing away from you, you can’t imagine trying to stitch something up on him would be fun. There’s bruises purpling around his throat, and _those_ make you wince when you touch them. “You’re gonna be getting funny looks for fuckin’ perigees.”

Dave rolls his eyes as he bats your hand away. “Whatever. I stopped caring when people stare a long time ago. You satisfied?” 

Now it’s you rolling your eyes, and you push at him. “Hell no. Show me what you be keepin’ the gauze and shit in.”

“Oh my _god,_ you stubborn fucking chuckleclown, why do you _care_ so much?”

There’s actual heat in his voice, which makes you pause, and you actually give it thought for a second before coming up with a reason you like. “Because if we wanna do this again, I gotta make sure you heal up nice.”

You’re not sure if it’s actual appreciation for what you’d said or just him being tired of arguing with you that makes him lead you to the kitchen, and when he gets the first aid kit down, he sets it on the card table in the kitchen, sitting down in one of his plastic chairs. “You gonna buy me dinner, too?”

You know he’s trying to be all sarcastic, and as you get the neosporin out, you shake your head. “Hell no. Uppity asshole. You’d prolly order the most expensive shit on the menu and then throw it in my face.”

It makes him laugh, your little quip, and while you finish checking to make sure nothing’s damaged, he’s quiet. It isn’t until you’ve got him patched up and are getting him a glass of water that he speaks. “So you sayin’ you want to do this again?”

You set the glass down in front of him, grinning broadly as you get your own. “Don’t you?”

“Maybe.” He swirls the water in the glass for a second before taking a drink.

You watch him as he does so, well aware that you’ve got a hundred thousand questions roiling around in your mind. Like: _isn’t shit a little deeper than this between you and Karkat_ and _I thought you hated me, what the fuck._ You don’t ask either of those, though. Instead you start with the one that’s most obvious. “So where did you get to hearin’ that I’m all about the rough nasty?”

There’s another soft snort of laughter. “You and Karkat are loud as fuck, you know.”

“What?” You frown at him.

“John’s party.” His shoulders rise and fall in some mockery of a shrug. “Everybody else was asleep. You guys were outside. I was gonna grab a smoke, but I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You let your brows knit together, trying to remember. Yeah, there’d been a party, a couple weeks ago. And you might’ve mentioned to your sometimes-palebro that you really wished you could sink your teeth into something that wouldn’t tell you to ease off when you made them bleed. Remembering it makes you blush all your own, and you comb a hand through your hair, clearing your throat. “I thought you and Karkat were—”

He’s already shaking his head, so you stop talking. “We tried it,” he admits slowly, like the words aren’t wanting to come. “But uh. We ran into some troubles. Two bottoms don’t make a right, you feel me?”

You stare at him for a second. When it comes, you can’t help it; your laugh echoes off the ceiling. Holy shit, you’d never, _ever_ considered that - but now that you have, the concept of Karkat and Dave in the same room and trying to figure out fucking is the funniest shit you could have ever conceived. “Holy _fuck_ ,” you gasp, wiping at your eyes. “Holy fucking _shit._ ”

He’s shaking his head, leaning back in his chair. “Glad my sweet nature is so fucking funny to you.” There’s sarcasm twisting his words but he’s still smiling, though it’s faint and tired. “You got any other curiosities boiling around in that head of yours?”

You shake your head. “Wondering when you’ll be up for round two, maybe,” you suggest, a sly smile on your face.

He raises a brow at you. “Right now,” he challenges, folding his arms across his chest. “If you think you can handle me.”

That’s _exactly_ what you wanted to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is 100% a reward for my pal doing adult shit. There may or may not be more of this, because said pal likes GamDave and I'm really intrigued by the weird AU i've got going in my head for this.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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